


By Another Name

by ysande



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Backstory, Friendship, Gen, History, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 06:09:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2014002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ysande/pseuds/ysande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos, Porthos and Aramis are willing to die for each other, but before they do, they would like to learn the true names of their friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Another Name

'It has come to my attention,' said Aramis, trying to keep his voice steady through the chattering of his teeth, 'that it is more likely than not that we three shall perish here.'

'Ridiculous!' exclaimed Porthos with such forced heartiness that his fears were plainly revealed. He felt Aramis trembling against him, and wrapped his cloak tighter around his friend in vain hope that it would make some difference. But even that small movement caused Aramis to cry out sharply, and Porthos himself was forced to bite his lip at the protest from his much abused left side.

'Here we are,' continued Aramis, ignoring Porthos' interjection and his own, 'abandoned, lost, wounded. Athos lies with blood pooling beneath his head, dead or insensible I know not, from a musket ball that passed too close.' His voice faltered as he glanced at the still form that lay beside them. He grasped Athos' cold hand weakly in his own.

'I had the misfortune of being run through the back by a cowardly dog while I faced two other men; but at least I had the satisfaction of dispatching all three.' And Aramis did indeed sound vindicated, but both he and Porthos knew that, beneath his doublet and bandages, his lifeblood was slowly ebbing away. Aramis knew the night was not so cold as he felt, and that for all of Porthos' denials, the giant pressed him half-sitting against his chest so that he could give to Aramis all the warmth from his body there was.

'And you, Porthos, you might seek to save yourself even if your leg is bruised and your arm is broken. I hear a horse nearby. You could ride to safety.'

'My leg is broken,' said Porthos bluntly. 'I'm not going to be chasing after any horses tonight. And even if I could,' - his voice suddenly rough with emotion - 'what kind of man do you take me for, what kind of brother, that would leave his truest friends to die without him?' And he crushed Aramis to his chest with his good arm, pressing his face into the dusty black curls. Aramis leaned into the embrace, leaned into the pain, because both things reminded him that they were still alive.

'I thought you said we weren't going to die,' he managed to tease, albeit a little breathlessly.

'We're not,' Porthos growled fiercely. 'The King's carriage escaped unharmed; he will send Captain Treville for us.'

'And you should have more faith,' came the faint murmur of Athos, 'in the endurance of your friends.'

Aramis gave the icy hand in his a compulsive squeeze, so surprised was he. Porthos, who had more strength, exclaimed joyously out loud. 'Athos! We feared you dead!'

Athos flinched at the volume, bringing a hand up to the side of his head and taking it away bloody. 'Not quite,' he whispered, 'although if you keep that noise up I'll do the deed myself.'

'Sorry,' said Porthos in a low voice, but for the first time that long night, his face was lit by its usual brilliant smile. 'How do you feel?'

Athos grimaced but did not deign to answer what he plainly considered self evident.

'I, for one,' said Aramis slowly, 'am honoured to die beside such true gentlemen and staunch friends as yourselves.' He had become still in Porthos' arms. The shivering that had wracked him had stopped, and his words began to slur together. Porthos was alarmed.

'The best of friends,' he agreed, 'even though none of us know each others' true names.'

As he had hoped, this piqued Aramis' interest. His eyes flickered open. It had been an unspoken agreement between the three them that whatever lay behind them lay forever locked in the past. Porthos knew as little about Aramis' past as he did about Athos' name, and they were equally ignorant about him. And yet against such mystery had grown such a true and devoted friendship that they were known by all as the Inseparables.

'Do you want to know my name?' Aramis asked softly. 'It's not one I care to own.'

'I'd be honoured,' Porthos said with such humility that Aramis was moved.

'My name is René d'Herblay,' Aramis sounded almost drunk, so much did his words run together. 'I am the third son of the Marquis d'Herblay.'

Porthos gave a low whistle. 'A marquis!'

Aramis gave a crooked smile. 'A hard man, and a cruel one. At nine I was placed in a seminary, where I was to study to become an abbe. There they fed us stale bread and water three meals a day, and whipped us once a week for good measure. After I had been there a month, I wept with joy, thinking I had found heaven.'

Athos pressed his hand in a sign of affection that was no less heartfelt despite its feebleness. Porthos rested his chin gently on the top of Aramis' head, and if, moved by his words, Porthos pressed a kiss to those curls, well, the hour before dawn was too dark for aught to be seen.

'Do you know your father still? And your brothers?' inquired Porthos, sounding strangely wistful.

Aramis' mouth twisted with distaste. 'The Marquis d'Herblay died when I was twelve, but I imagine he was not missed, for his eldest son, my brother Henri, took his place not only in name but in mindless cruelty. As for my second brother, he was a soldier but an unlucky one; he died in his first campaign when he was fifteen, and I imagine he was not sad to escape this world.' 

And Aramis fell silent, exhausted from this long speech and haunted by old memories. Soon he roused himself, recalling the present with an enormous force of will. 

'And you, my dear Porthos?' he asked in his turn.

Porthos shrugged a powerful shoulder - the one that was not wounded. 'Can't be sure,' he said honestly. 'I think they christened me Isaac, but no one ever used the name after my mother died. I was about five then, and I can't rightly remember if she ever called me Isaac, or if I wished that up myself later. Everyone else called me Porthau's bastard - him being the master of the house where my mother worked,' he explained. 'Porthau's bastard - I guess the name stuck.'

'My friend,' murmured Aramis, reaching for Porthos' hand with the one of his own that wasn't grasping Athos'.

Athos responded by dragging his heavy eyes open; he exchanged a glance with Porthos which eloquently conveyed his sympathy despite the lack of words and the darkness of the pre-dawn sky.

'This night feels like winter,' Aramis' confused voice said suddenly. He spoke so faintly that Porthos had to lean in close to hear him. 'I will sleep now, and things will be better in the morning.' And so saying, Aramis closed his eyes with a sigh.

Porthos was alarmed. 'No, Aramis! You must not sleep; I fear you will never wake if you do.'

But Aramis did not reply. His already shallow breathing slowed further.

'Aramis!' cried Porthos, giving him a little shake and disregarding the pain that the movement caused them both.

'Aramis!' said Athos urgently, fear giving his voice strength.

'Listen to our good friend Athos,' said Porthos desperately. 'You can't sleep without knowing Athos' name.'

This produced some small reaction by Aramis; a tiny smile played around his lips. 'Athos?'

But Athos' expression was a mask of horror and despair. He shook his head, heedless of the musket wound and the resulting dizziness that crashed over him. 'I cannot!' he groaned, hiding his face with his hands. 

'Athos?' Aramis' voice was barely a whisper. In the grey light before dawn, his skin looked ashen and pale enough to be translucent. Porthos looked beseechingly at Athos, his expression stricken.

'I was the Comte de la Fere.' Athos, normally so cool and collected with nerves of steel, choked the words out as though he could not breathe around them. 'They once called me Olivier; I was once a Comte! I beg of you, if you ever had any regard for me at all, cast those names from your memory! Never speak them again; they are cursed and their owner will only find peace in death.'

'Death,' repeated Aramis with an odd little smile. 'We shall all be granted peace in death.'

'Quiet!' commanded Porthos. 'What is that I hear?'

'Horses,' answered Athos through clenched teeth. 'I feel their hoof beats in my head.'

'Help has come!' cried Porthos, the wave of relief bringing tears to his eyes. 'Aramis, awake!'

'The King's Musketeers!' came the clarion call of the foremost rider from a distance. Porthos' heart leapt within him as he recognised the voice of Treville. 'The King's Musketeers and the King's surgeon!'

'He must have ridden all night to reach us,' Aramis said in wonder. A strange and determined light shone in his eyes. 'No father ever loved his children better than our Captain loves his musketeers.'

'And no man ever loved his brother better than we three love each other,' Athos said gently.

Porthos grinned his wild, fierce grin. 'Porthau's bastard had no brothers, but Porthos has two!'

'Our old names be damned,' Aramis agreed. 'Whatever you call me, I will answer gladly. We have no need of the past; our futures will be shaped together.'

And together they waited for the approaching horses to arrive, beaten, bleeding and broken, but unbowed.


End file.
